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Wednesday, 29 June 2011

Amazingly, it appeared both my front door and the complex mechanism required to work my doorbell had survived the fire unharmed. Stumbling blearily from a bed of broken concrete and burned wood, I walked to the door and peered through the peep-hole. It was a useful new feature I'd had installed in a vague attempt to stop having to talk to door-to-door fools. Of course, it was more useful when you had walls and shit, instead of just a freestanding door...

Outside was a man dressed in white Khaki, a look completed with safari hat perched on the wearer's head. I shrugged to myself and opened the door.

"Ah! Good day old sport!" The man began, his voice emanating from somewhere within a giant white moustache. "Nigel Wriggly-Washington, at your service!"

"No, of course not. I serve my King and Country hunting poodles on the Coast of Africa!"

I nodded.

"And, of course, I make something on the side selling the finest poodleskins to esteemed gentlemen like yourself sir. Why not buy one sir, makes a great material for making your finery out of! Impress the young lady in your life by buying her a poodle corsage!"

I nodded sadly. I had no idea what a poodle corsage was, but it didn't sound like something that would impress a young lady.

Tuesday, 28 June 2011

At first, I thought it was was Raiden making another of his desperate attempts to befriend me - he's been hanging around a lot, telling me about things he sees in the park - and when I awoke to find Max's severed head in the bed next to me, I thought he was trying to win me over with kindness. (Don't worry, I've sewn Max's head back onto his body, he's fine now)

Then, yesterday, a Mafia Don arrived at my house and demanded I cast his nephew in my new film. I tried to explain I didn't make films, and also - through a complex series of events that required much genealogical enterprise on my behalf - explain to the Don he had no nephew. But in the end, I had no luck in either endeavour.

In a beautiful voice, one of the Mafia goons began to sing in Italian. The moving, dramatic score provided the perfect background music for the other two henchmen, who set fire to my living room.

Beside me, in a flash of lightening, Raiden appeared.

"Help! Fire!" I yelled enthusiastically at him.

"Oh." He sulked. "You barely talk to me, but now you need something.... Well, I'll see what I can do."

In Raiden's defence, of course, he didn't have mastery over rain or water or anything. But after the first few attempts, it should have become evident to him that lightening was not the solution to my problem. Huge bolts of the stuff flew from the sky, immolating my already smouldering shrubbery and destroying my carefully arranged garden Scrabble board. The roof of my house gave way under the combined forces of fire and a different fire, caused by lightening, which was to all effects and purposes identical to the first fire.

I sighed, and went into the garage. I'd lost everything, especially the beehive that had been growing ever larger under my gutters. Those bees were meant to sustain me through old age, providing flying nourishment and sexual gratification...

Wednesday, 22 June 2011

This town has dragged you down. Oh, the rain... Well, you get the point. Outside, rain fell from the skies, as is customary in such occasions, cutting the air open and bombarding my azaleas. A woodpecker, bedazzled by nature in all her finery, staggered through the air and rounded the corner of my house. Man versus nature is an old tale; an unwinnable battle that neither of us can win. Except me. I've written an advert, you see.

Actually, you probably don't see. That's fair enough; after all, I was talking in a somewhat crypticfashion. Forgive me please, dear reader. I have appealed, you must understand, for an intervention. I've called for a deity to help me against the weather. Through the classified ads in my local paper.

The doorbell rang. You're probably shocked, loyal readers, that it didn't ring at the start of this tale. That's what usually happens around here. I answered, it would be rude not to.

There was a man on the doorstep. There always is. 7 foot tall, pale and dressed in white robes with blue vest and cape. A coolie hat sat upon his head, the brow hanging above his glowing, blue eyes.

Friday, 10 June 2011

You shouldn't give cats beer. Image by caffeinatedjedi via FlickrMax shuddered quietly beside the fireplace. He'd been released yesterday from what he called his "Korean Death Camp" (A title that was both inaccurate and offensive, as I tried to explain numerous times) and seemed to be taking the whole experience rather badly.

"I hate to ask, but I need some money."

I looked at Max over a pair of glasses I'd put on specially for the purpose of looking over.

"What for?"

"I need to fund my battle with alcoholism."

I nodded. I didn't think Max was an alcoholic. To be honest, I didn't think he drank much anyway. His zany antics were generally enough to get him barred from most pubs, clubs, supermarkets and petshops in town. Not that petshops sell much alcohol. Well, not person alcohol anyway. McGregor's Pets down by the McDonalds sells a special Cat Beer I think, but that's besides the point.

"Your 'battle with alcoholism'?"

"Yea."

"Ok." I replied. "But which side will you be funding?"

"What?"

"You say it's a battle Max. You versus the alcohol. Which side will the money help?"

"Oh, the alcohol of course. I want to buy some beer."

I nodded. I'd guessed as much, truth be told. I didn't give Max any money. It's not that I actually think he has a drink problem, more the fact I just don't want to give him money.

Thursday, 9 June 2011

I continued to read the newspaper. I wasn't on speaking terms with the phone, not after what it said to me last week. Daring to impersonate the disembodied voices of my friends, family and neighbours. The cheek.

Ring ring, it went again.

My resolve broke and I answered, hearing the familiar but muffled tones of Max from the other end of the device.

"What's happened now?"

"Taken prisoner!" Came the distorted reply, "By the Koreans!"

I sighed. I was faced with several alternatives. Either Max had accidently time-travelled and was participating in the Korean war, he had been arrested in Korea, or far more likely, he'd just gotten into an argument with someone of Korean ancestry and exaggerated the argument. Taking down his address, I headed off to find out what had happened.

The laundry was small and worn, with cracking paintwork and a decrepit sign. Inside, I discovered Max trapped inside a spindryer. Spinning round and round, he explained when he called me he'd been trapped in a washing machine and had a load of soap in his ears. Two Koreans, a husband and wife who owned the property, were attempting to help Max out of the machine. I slowly explained to Max, in the loud and patient voice one uses on foreigners who don't speak any English, that the Koreans were not imprisoning him but trying to help. I'll tackle his use of the phrase "the Koreans" later. It'll take a lot of work to explain to Max the difference between 'some' and 'all' again...

Monday, 6 June 2011

Yea, he looks cute and shit, but he's made of people!
Imagine loads of Danny DeVitos sewn together.
Is that what you want your kids to see?
Image via Wikipedia

Following the tragic, terrible, sad news that the BBFC would not be classifyingThe Human Centipede II, I thought I'd explain how I imagine the plot playing out for you all.

First, imagine the book The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Now, replace the caterpillar with a centipede, that's step one. Thanks to the magic of wikipedia, I will now recreate the plot:

The book starts with an egg on a leaf. Here, replace "Egg on a leaf" with the normal manner of the birth of a human centepide - the sewing together, mouth to anus, of 3 people. Now since this is a sequal, image an additional 2 people being added to this process. And a giraffe.

The tiny caterpillar emerges and looks for food. The large beast emerges from a lab and looks pitiful. Really, really pitiful...

On consecutive days, the caterpillar eats through a single red apple, two (green) pears, three (purple) plums, four strawberries, and five oranges, which takes us from Monday to Friday. Here, imagine the poor centipede thing looking pitiful again. And the guy that did this being mad.

Saturday: the caterpillar eats its way through many different foods: chocolate cake, ice-cream, a pickle, Swiss cheese, salami, a lollipop, a cherry pie, a sausage, a cupcake, and a slice of watermelon. The caterpillar develops a tummy ache as a result of eating all this food. Ok, who gave these foods to a caterpillar? Seriously... Anyway, imagine the centipede still having a pretty shit time of it all.

Sunday: the caterpillar eats through a single leaf, which makes the caterpillar feel better. The centipede begins to die from an infection. Because, you know, people aren't meant to live like this.

The now big caterpillar forms a cocoon (the term for a moth Pupa is substituted under Poetic license). I should really delete the hyperlinks I copied on mass, but I can't really be bothered. Anyway, more shit happens at this point.

On the final pages the caterpillar is now a 'beautiful' butterfly. The front and back 2 members of centepede II are dead, leaving the middle member to die blind and alone with poo in her mouth. Such is the cruelty of nature.

Well, there you have it. It makes me sick that that's what people consider a suitable children's book these days. No, wait a second, I wrote that, didn't I? To be honest, I don't think my plot is as graphic or disturbing as it should be. I'm sorry I failed you. I'll go sew my mouth to someone's anus as a punishment.

Update: I've just read the synopsis for the sequel, which "tells the story of a man who becomes sexually obsessed with a DVD recording of the first film and who imagines putting the ‘centipede’ idea into practice. Unlike the first film, the sequel presents graphic images of sexual violence, forced defecation, and mutilation, and the viewer is invited to witness events from the perspective of the protagonist. Whereas in the first film the ‘centipede’ idea is presented as a revolting medical experiment, with the focus on whether the victims will be able to escape, this sequel presents the ‘centipede’ idea as the object of the protagonist’s depraved sexual fantasy." So essentially, it's just a documentary about me then?

Saturday, 4 June 2011

Once again, this man was not a serial killer.Image via WikipediaJerry Voorhis was a Democraticpolitician, serving five terms in the House of Representatives from 1937 to 1947, before being defeated by a young Nixon. It is important, however, not to confuse him with Jason Voorhees, who wore a hockey mask and killed people. Such confusion can lead to lawsuits. Can someone post me an envelope of cash? I won't spend it on meth again.

Friday, 3 June 2011

Image via WikipediaThe scaffolding, I noted happily, had been erected. I paused to titter to myself, first at the word "erected", then at the word "titter" itself, before continuing my approach. What I was approaching was the team of workmen who should have been building my extension.

They were stood around lazily. Is that a sentence? Don't care. Anyway, the were lazily standing around the base of the scaffolding, cleaning themselves and meowing, as they were prone to do. Since I was already in the mood for approaching things, I approached the foreman. He turned towards me, pausing with his tongue outstretched towards his also outstretched leg.

"Meow?"

"Look, I'm sorry. I know you're trying your best," I began. "But look, you're just not getting the job done, are you? I mean, it's been a month since you started work here, and you've only just got the scaffolding up."

The foreman took no notice, and started to rub his head against my leg.

"And I gave you an advanced payment last week - you said you needed to buy materials straight away. But there's nothing been done since then. Except - and I don't wish to point fingers - there's a lot of empty tuna cans around here, that's all."

The foreman, having lost interest, wandered off and started to scratch a tree. Exasperated, I turned and stormed off towards my car. Frankly, I was annoyed. The workmen were proving to be hideously inefficient, and the fact they kept pretending to be cats was just infuriating. I wish I'd hired actual cats instead. Or maybe a half-cat, half human-pretending-to-be-cat team. I think that would be the best of both worlds.